It was dark when he reached the borders of the lake. Around a
glittering fire he dimly discerned dusky figures dancing. They
were in war paint. Conspicuous among them was the renowned Muck-a-
Muck. But why did the fingers of Natty Bumpo tighten convulsively
around his rifle?
The chief held in his hand long tufts of raven hair. The heart of
the pioneer sickened as he recognized the clustering curls of
Genevra. In a moment his rifle was at his shoulder, and with a
sharp "ping," Muck-a-Muck leaped into the air a corpse. To knock
out the brains of the remaining savages, tear the tresses from the
stiffening hand of Muck-a-Muck, and dash rapidly forward to the
cottage of Judge Tompkins, was the work of a moment.
He burst open the door. Why did he stand transfixed with open
mouth and distended eyeballs? Was the sight too horrible to be
borne? On the contrary, before him, in her peerless beauty, stood
Genevra Tompkins, leaning on her father's arm.
"Ye'r not scalped, then!" gasped her lover.
"No. I have no hesitation in saying that I am not; but why this
abruptness?" responded Genevra.
Bumpo could not speak, but frantically produced the silken tresses.
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